


one is the loneliest number

by Flywoman



Series: one is the loneliest number [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Star-crossed, World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes no one understands you like your greatest rival. Set immediately after Portugal's elimination from the 2010 World Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one is the loneliest number

**Author's Note:**

> This seems a little less timely now that CR has pulled his team into the Euro quarterfinals, but hopefully the idea still works. Thanks to jezziejay for the beta!

**June 29, 2010**

After the final whistle blows, leaving Portugal 0-1 against Spain and out of the World Cup, it is all Cristiano Ronaldo can do not to march over to David Villa and smack him right in his smirking face. That goal was offside, Cris is absolutely certain of it, and he knows that the replays will bear him out, for all the good that it will do him and his team. But in the meantime, he mans up and acts the captain: he grits his teeth and shakes hands with smiling Spaniards and squeezes his own players' shoulders, and when in the dressing room a couple of them begin clamoring to go out and get quietly wasted, he actually considers accompanying them for a moment.

But honestly the last thing he wants to do is get stuck as the designated driver for a morass of morose Portuguese drunks. So despite the disapproving glances of Fábio and Pepe, he excuses himself early and goes back to his hotel room alone to lick his wounds. He takes a second shower, slumped under the steaming hot water with his eyes shut, dries himself off gingerly, puts on pajamas. He's too sore and depressed and exhausted even to cry.

He's lying on top of the covers, his face pillowed in the crook of his arm, replaying that last game in his head, scornful chants of _"Messi! Messi!"_ when he was on the ball included, when he hears the dull rap of a fist on the door.

Cris frowns; he can't imagine who would be calling on him tonight. But he forces himself to sit up and swing his feet to the floor, pads across the room, and peers through the peephole.

Lionel Messi is standing there, unkempt brown hair falling in his face, staring at his feet. He's dressed in worn jeans, dingy trainers, and a nondescript gray hoodie that's at least two sizes too big for him.

 _Speak of the devil._ Cris scowls. What the hell is Leo doing here? They hardly even know each other, aside from their paths crossing in the occasional awards ceremony or _clasico_. Yet it never even occurs to him to not allow the other man in; his curiosity is more than strong enough to overcome his suspicion, distaste, and yes - he's man enough to admit to it - envy. He opens the door, so quickly that Leo jerks back a little.

"Yes?" Cris asks, brusque, dismissive.

Leo shifts uncomfortably from side to side, looking like a toddler who needs to use the toilet, his gaze darting away from Cris' face. "May I come in?" he mumbles in his thick Argentinian accent.

Cris would laugh if he didn't feel so shitty; this is all too ridiculous. "Sure, why not," he says, shrugging, and pulls the door open wider, but doesn't step aside to let Leo pass. He knows that he's being rude, but he can't care enough to make an effort.

To his surprise, Leo comes in anyway, brushing against Cris' hip as he edges past. He stops and stands a couple of feet away, his head cocked warily, his eyes wide under the hair that he pushes absently aside and tucks behind his oversized ears.

Cris raises his eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience, and closes the door. "Well, what do you want? It isn't enough for you that we lost? You wanted to rub my face in it?"

Leo goes white, then red. "No," he stammers. "No. Nothing like that. I came here because" - his voice is so soft that Cris can barely comprehend him - "because I thought you might want to talk about it."

"To _you_?" Cris can barely conceal his contempt and disbelief.

"To someone," Leo says, and stops and swallows, then resumes, his voice stronger. "To someone who actually knows how you feel."

Now Cris does laugh. "Lionel Messi, the world's _greatest footballer_ ," he adds with air quotes, "has come to my room after my team got knocked out of the World Cup to tell me that he knows how I feel?"

Leo's expression changes subtly, his lower lip jutting out a little in renewed determination, assuming the look that no goalkeeper in the world wants to see from twenty meters. "You feel like everyone has been depending on you. Like they expect you to play here like you do in Spain, to score goals, to take your team to victory. You feel like you've tried your best but you couldn't live up to the expectations."

These are more words than Cris has ever heard out of Leo's mouth at one time, live or on television, and they have been said with empathy, not pity. It belatedly occurs to Cris that Leo is no longer talking about him, if indeed he ever was. And then, as if embarrassed by his own boldness, Leo ducks his head and adds quietly, "And that makes you sad." Still not looking up, he sidles forward... and wraps his arms around Cris' unresisting body in a hard hug.

Cris looks down into the part between Leo's soft brown wings of hair as his own arms extend automatically despite his better judgment. He can feel Leo trembling under his palms, his small frame impossibly fragile for the feats he has accomplished on the football field. He smells like fresh sweat and soap, and something musky and faintly bitter. A familiar warmth stirs, and Cris attempts, humiliated, to shift his hips away.

But Leo only pulls him closer, pressing insistently against his thigh, his crotch. He's so young, so naive, he must not even be aware of the effect he's having on Cris, he's just doing what he would do for one of his teammates, or maybe his brothers.

Then Leo clasps the back of Cris' neck to pull him downward and press their lips together, and Cris nearly starts spluttering. _Maybe not so brotherly after all_. He closes his eyes, kissing back, and he's nowhere near as horrified as he should be to feel himself hardening against Leo's belly.

Leo's lips are chapped and taste like he's been eating potato chips, and his nose keeps getting in the way, but Cris can't stop kissing him. He opens his mouth, allowing their tongues to tangle, and Leo lets out a low moan that sends shivers up his spine. The next thing he knows, Leo's fingers are fumbling at the buttons of his pajama top, and he's unzipping Leo's fly and pushing his jeans down over his narrow hips. Cris has no words for how weird this is, to be in his hotel room undressing homely little _Lionel Messi_ , and yet he can't seem to do anything but let Leo lead him along.

Somehow they wind up on the bed, grinding against each other in their underwear, the rest of their clothes tossed together on the floor. Leo's hands feel deliciously cool on the small of Cris' back, but his mouth is warm and wet. He suddenly twists his hips to force Cris over and onto the mattress, and now he's on his knees, straddling Cris and gazing down at him with an expression that he can't interpret. Then he nods once, sharply, and rolls away to pull off his boxers, settles back against the pillows, and waits.

Cris gets his first good look at Leo's body, spread serenely under him like a sacrificial lamb. Leo's skin is even softer and paler than he'd expected, the creamy slopes of his shoulders as smooth as a child's, but the muscles underneath are well-defined; an unexpected six-pack frames his protruding navel. Fascinated, Cris leans in to encircle it with his tongue, then licks a line downward. But as he reaches Leo's cock, swaying pink and smooth above the wiry chestnut curls, the smaller man shudders and pushes him away. "That's not..." he says, and takes a deep breath. "That's not what you need right now."

Cris blinks, wondering whether he understands what Leo wants from him. As if to remove any remaining doubts, Leo lifts his hips, pushes his pelvis off the bed. "Do you have..." he starts to ask, looking embarrassed yet sure of himself.

"Um," Cris says. "Yeah. Wait here." He unfolds himself from between Leo's legs and lopes to the bathroom, rummages through his toiletries bag, fishes out a condom. He learned long ago to be prepared whenever he travels.

Back in the bedroom, Cris steps out of his briefs and toes them to one side, rips open the condom wrapper, then stops, biting his lower lip. "I don't have any lube here," he says, knowing instinctively that it's too much to hope that Leo has thought to bring some.

"Doesn't matter," Leo says, eyes fluttering shut. But when Cris continues to hesitate, he opens them again, half-sits up, takes the condom, and rolls it firmly down over Cris' cock, squeezing the base. He gasps, at least as turned on by the sight of Leo's fingers wrapped around him as by the actual pressure. Leo lies back again, his hands cupping Cris' shoulders, and parts his powerful thighs to lock them around his waist.

Cris leans in for another kiss, and Leo twists his head to catch the lobe of his left ear in his teeth and clamps down encouragingly. Cris is so ready, he's aching. He reaches down to slide his hand blindly between Leo's legs, massages him experimentally behind the balls, then shakes his head in disbelief. "Have you ever even done this before?"

But all Leo will say is, "Go ahead. I'm ready."

"Leo," he says, pulling away with a frown, "I don't want to hurt you."

Leo looks up at him, unsmiling, his expression intense but unreadable. "If you did, a little bit... it would be okay."

Cris doesn't pause to work out whether Leo means that it would be okay if he did hurt him, or okay if he wanted to; desire has suddenly hijacked all remnants of common sense. He simply pushes in, the rest of the world dissolving in white heat and a pleasure so intense it's almost painful. Leo's muffled yelp mingles with his own low groan, and stubby fingers dig into his deltoids.

They rock together for a while, no telling how long, and Leo was right, this is exactly what Cris needed, the thrust, the triumphant shout, the sight of his greatest rival beneath him, clenched around him, whimpering, beady eyes squinched shut. Leo keeps urging him on, _harder_ , _faster_ , and his body responds, hammering him into the mattress. They're both bright red, panting, slick with sweat, when Cris finally comes and keens and rolls off of Leo. He's surprised to find that his stomach is slippery with semen and reaches for a tissue to wipe himself off, then wraps the condom in it and tosses it in the wastebasket.

Leo's lying next to him, totally relaxed now despite the traces of tears still clinging to the corners of his eyelids. There's an angry bruise, already purpling, on his exposed, tender throat. Something brittle and unyielding inside of him has seemingly been broken and made whole. He smiles, eyes closed, and fumbles for Cris' hand.

Cris entwines their fingers and takes a deep breath, then another, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow. He doesn't know what to say. He's still not sure exactly what just happened.

Leo opens one eye, reaches up and tentatively pats Cris on the head. "I don't think I've ever seen you without gel in your hair before," he says all in a rush.

Cris laughs - he can't help it - and ventures to slide his palm up the back of Leo's damp neck, to thread his fingers through the fine brown hair, now stiff with sweat and sticking out in all directions. "Has anyone told you lately that you need a haircut?" he teases.

"Yes, Puyol," Leo replies with a perfectly straight face, then dissolves into giggles at Cris' incredulous expression. When he quiets, he lets go of Cris' hand and stretches luxuriously, then swings his legs off the bed and begins rooting around for his clothes.

Cris watches him, an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. "You have to go?"

"My family will be missing me," Leo says with a little shrug. The t-shirt he yanks over his head has an old stain on it that Cris didn't have time to notice before.

"Really, _that's_ what you wore over here to seduce me?" Cris comments before he can help himself.

Leo pauses with one sock on and looks him up and down. "You were wearing pajamas," he points out.

Well, yes, he had been, but they were white silk and monogrammed with gold thread, and besides, "I wasn't expecting company. You're the one who knew you were coming over."

Leo disappears under his too-big sweatshirt for a few seconds and then reemerges, hair even more mussed than before. "I came as soon as I heard the result," he says. What he doesn't say is, _if I'd thought about it longer, I probably wouldn't have done it_ , but Cris hears it anyway and nods slowly.

"No regrets, I hope," he says lightly, trying not to look as if he cares about the answer.

Leo winces a little as he lifts each leg to pull his jeans on, but the lopsided smile he turns on Cris is genuine. "None."

"Good," Cris says. "And..." _Thanks_ sounds so awkward; _Will I see you again?_ is even worse. He finally settles for, "Good luck against Germany."

Leo stiffens almost imperceptibly, halfway into his hoodie, then yanks it all the way down and blows his hair out of his face. "Thanks," he says.

"I'll be watching," Cris assures him. "I might even stick around here for a few more days."

"Uh, okay," Leo replies politely, but he looks a little confused. He hesitates, then leans over to peck Cris on the cheek. _"Hasta luego."_

Cris watches as he lets himself out, pulling his hood up and jamming his hands into his pockets.

  


Without really trying to explain his decision to anyone else, much less himself, Cris extends his stay in Cape Town for another week. It takes a bit of negotiation - habitable rooms are at a premium all over the country - but he manages it with some serious charm and a few signed shirts.

Leo doesn't come to see him again. The couple of times they text, the Argentine is apologetic but adamant that he has to stay with his team, has to make sure that they are practicing properly and bonding and preparing tactically for their upcoming match. _Basically u have to do M's job for him_ , Cris suggests once, and while Leo doesn't agree, he doesn't actually deny it either.

So Cris spends his days alone, mostly. He swims, goes for long runs, gets waxed, spends hours on the phone with his agent. One morning he visits the botanical garden and hikes up Platteklip Gorge in mirror sunglasses, but it's less than an hour before he finds himself at the summit, looking out over the city and wondering exactly where Leo is and what he is doing. In the evenings he stays in, stretches and lifts and watches the matches on tv, and keeps his phone close, just in case.

  


**July 3, 2010**  


Cris watches Leo's quarterfinal, of course. A much smaller part of him than he might once have expected quivers with glee when Germany defeat Argentina, just wipe the floor with them in thoroughly humiliating fashion. He doesn't think that he could have endured the vindication of that arrogant buffoon Maradona. But the lost look on Leo's face following two hours of obvious frustration makes his chest feel hot and tight, makes it hard for him to swallow.

He waits a decent interval for the teams to disperse to the dressing room, for post-match interviews and transit, before heading over to the _Albicelestes'_ hotel.

A couple of smiles and autographs get him the number of Kun and Leo's room. Eschewing the elevator, Cris takes the stairs two at a time, his mind racing as he rehearses, then discards, the consoling comments he might make, the places on Leo's pale skin to which he will press his lips to take away the sting of defeat. By the time he reaches the right floor, he's feeling more relaxed, limbs loose, body thrumming in anticipation.

This is the room. No light leaks from underneath the door, but Cris is as sure as he's ever been of anything that Leo is in there, and that he is not asleep. He knocks once, twice, three times. "Leo," he says, "it's Cris. Let me in, please." No answer. Not the faintest stirring in the room beyond.

Cris pulls out his phone and scrolls down for Leo's number. He can hear the ringtone, dull and indistinct, but definitely on the other side of the door. "Leo," he says again once the greeting has played itself out, "it's Cris. I watched the game. I thought that... I thought that you might want to talk."

For a moment, nothing. Then a soft rustle, maybe the shifting of sheets.

The phone in his hand chirps with the reception of a new text. It says simply, "I don't."

Cris stares down at it for a full minute. Another one.

"You asshole," he mutters, and he's not really sure whether he's referring to Leo or to himself.

At last he turns on his heel and walks away.

  


** Notes from the 2010 World Cup in South Africa:  **

Argentina beat Nigeria, South Korea, and Greece in the group stages. Lionel Messi didn't score.

Portugal tied the Ivory Coast 0-0, beat North Korea 7-0 with only one goal from Cristiano Ronaldo, and tied Brazil 0-0.

Argentina beat Mexico 3-1 in the round of 16 (Johannesburg). Still no goals for Lionel Messi.

Spain knocked out Portugal 1-0 in the round of 16 (Cape Town), with striker David Villa scoring the winning goal in the 63rd minute (later shown to be offside).

Germany beat Argentina 4-0 in the quarter finals (Cape Town). Diego Maradona's contract as national team coach was not renewed.

  
  



End file.
